Writers Block
by OldSFfan
Summary: House is procrastinating.


I don't own House or Foreman, and this fiction is not intended to violate the owners' copyrights. It is set a couple years after Season 8 and is a prequel to my story, "Visiting Day."

Writer's Block

Foreman sat behind the big, mahogany desk that replaced Cuddy's much smaller desk. That old desk, with its so personal associations, stood in Cuddy's new office and new hospital. More cordial than usual, Foreman gestured at the visitor's chair. "Have a seat."

House eased himself into the seat. "What did I do now?"

"It's what you didn't do. Aren't you revising your textbook on infectious diseases that have nephrologic consequences?"

"Yeah. Medical textbooks really should be revised every five years. It's been eight."

"Your publisher is wondering how you're doing."

"So they called you?"

"You didn't return their calls."

"I will, when I finish the current chapter."

"How long have you been working on that chapter?"

"Well, I've been kind of busy."

Foreman snorted. "Mayfield. Self-surgery. The Cuddy thing round – what, round two? Prison. Dying. Resurrection. Road trip with your dying best friend. Saving his life. Reconnecting with Cuddy. Trying to be declared alive again. Knocking Cuddy up. Trying to stay out of prison. Yeah, I'd call that busy. Only you, House. You're lucky they didn't find someone else to finish the revision and sign them up."

"My editor called Cuddy yesterday, trying to find me."

"They tracked her down to Princeton General?"

"She's still laughing. She's also threatening to chain me to my desk chair."

"You're wearing an ankle monitor, again. Chains might be redundant, or kinky. I didn't know Cuddy had it in her."

"Careful, you're talking about the mother of my child."

"The woman's a saint. There are a number of authors who wrote in prison. You might acquaint yourself with them."

"You mean, Marco Polo? Saint Paul? Thomas Malory? Thomas More? Cervantes? John Bunyan? Oscar Wilde? Why thank you, Foreman, for comparing me to such illustrious company."

Foreman sighed. "You don't have a patient right now. Technically, your department has patients, but you don't. You can't work in the clinic. Go write, House."

House wheeled on his good leg and walked out, the office door swinging shut behind him. Foreman sifted through the papers on his desk and started to read the insurance file on top. A knock on the door brought his head up. "Come in." House's head poked through.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something else."

House's sudden attack of good manners confused him. "Sure. Now what?"

Foreman gestured at the chair by the desk. House eased himself into it. He fiddled with his cane for a moment. "If I ever get this revision finished, well, I want to write a textbook on diagnostic medicine."

Foreman leaned back in his chair, relieved that House wasn't presenting yet another problem. He considered his words, then said, "You should. You changed the way diagnostic medicine is practiced. You have to do it as a service to medicine, or if that's too altruistic for you, because anyone interested in it is holding their breath, waiting for you to do it."

"I know. My publisher offered me a contract to develop it. What we do, what we did when you were on my team, was to solve unique cases. We published a number of papers, but you can't make a textbook out of a series of case studies. What I want to do is to write a book describing our method, then include an interactive computer program, either on a DVD-ROM or on the internet, as a teaching tool."

"That's a great idea, House. That's brilliant."

"Yeah, but I don't have the programming skills to create the interactive program. And we would need to link to a database, preferably PubMed and Medline. That's why I wanted to talk to you about it. Thirteen has excellent computer skills, or at least enough to get started. We could hire some wunderkind from the Princeton University computer science department to polish it, and publishers have whole departments to do the finish work on textbooks."

"Thirteen, I mean Remy, is starting to have trouble doing some procedures that involve fine motor skills. I'd like to find a way to keep her employed."

"Yeah, I'd like to, too."

"Then, finish the revision so you can get on with the new book." Foreman clicked the top of a ballpoint pen. He cleared his throat. "You've changed, House."

"People don't change."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that, can't think from whom. But you've changed. Just wanted to let you know that I appreciate it, and I know what kind of hell you've been through."

House made a noise close to 'humph,' and climbed to his feet. "Foreman, you know I'm probably going back to prison. My attorney thinks he can keep the sentence short, but there will be some time. I want to get married either before or after, but definitely before the baby is born. And my license won't get reinstated until the prison thing is resolved, if ever. I might have to make a career as a consultant, or a writer."

Foreman grinned. "You could try teaching here, you know."

House groaned. "Oh God. Can I at least have a grader?"

Foreman shook his head, trying to hide the smirk he couldn't control. "I'll work on the license, but if you don't get over your writer's block, a career as a writer is a little iffy."

"How about a gig as a pianist in a bar downtown?"

"Conditions of your parole – no alcohol or proximity to places where it is served. I don't recall anything about playing piano in a bar, but it's probably a no-no. Go write, House, and consult with your team. I've got work to do."

* * *

Wilson, looking positively sunny for a gaunt man with no hair and a slightly bloated face, wandered into House's office. His gray suit was immaculate. His green tie with something floral on it, maybe yellow chrysanthemums, was ghastly. "I hear Foreman is cracking the whip."

"Yeah. I can't win. No license, so no clinic duty; I thought I was free. But now he wants me to get back to revising my textbook."

"Tough life. You've been working on it since before you went to prison. Your publisher is angling for sainthood."

"Ready for lunch?"

"Do I look like a man who can eat lunch?"

House swiveled away from his computer monitor and dropped the banter. "You've got to eat something. Let's go down to the cafeteria and get you some soup or something." He closed his eyes for a moment in resignation. "I'm buying."

Wilson mimed astonishment. He looked around. "Is this Candid Camera?"

"What do you know about Candid Camera? You're too young. Come on, if you get any skinnier, you'll scare your patients even worse than you're scaring them now." He lurched to his feet and grabbed his cane. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer, Wilson, sort of like a century plant blooming. Don't miss it."

Foreman, walking into the cafeteria himself, looked up to see House and Wilson, walking together in perfect harmony. In the drama of the last years, that was sight he had missed. He smiled , hesitated over a burger, then dutifully got a salad to take back to his office.

The End


End file.
